


Nature Boy

by bastet



Category: A Knight's Tale (2001)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-20
Updated: 2006-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:02:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1632935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastet/pseuds/bastet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A real mate would at least give me a girl, like Will and Roland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nature Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Olivia_Circe for throwing out random David Bowie songs when I needed a title, several of her friends for watching this movie when they should have been doing work, and Lilith for always feeding my delusions. 
> 
> Written for Valderys

 

 

Disclaimer: I did no research for this story, but in my defense, Brian Hedgeland didn't even bother to find out what real French accents sound like when he made the movie, so I don't feel too bad. And all these characters belong either to him or to history.

The celebratory banquet that the Prince threw for Will turned into a wild party as quickly as the tables could be dragged away, but after a couple of dances (with Kate leading, for the most part), Wat found himself sitting by the fire with Chaucer, warm from the flames and the truly excellent wine that had been flowing freely all night. He put his arm around Chaucer's shoulders, and Chaucer gave him a crooked but honestly happy smile and tilted his head close to listen as Wat began to tell him, very steadily he thought, about Lucy, who had cooked for the Duke of York. Chaucer liked good stories, even if there were no knights in this one.

As his wine jug grew emptier and the story got sadder, his head fell onto Chaucer's shoulder and eventually onto his lap. He squinted uncomfortably at this development. "Your knees are like sharp sticks."

"No, your head is bony," Chaucer retorted, and shifted under him, wiggling his back against the wall and his legs against the stone floor until Wat was more or less settled on one of his thighs, gazing up at the ceiling, which was very far away. "You were saying?"

"Hm?"

"You were at the point in your story when the Duke was chasing you out of his orchard with a pack of dogs," Chaucer reminded him.

Wat blinked up at him: the firelight caught the ends of his hair, lit his huge eyes and made him look like an angel. A devil, more like. "S'not much to tell after that. I haven't seen her since, she's probably married now." He sniffled and turned his head sideways, finding another series of discomforts in Chaucer's leg in the process. "Anyway, you'd tell a better story."

"Undoubtedly, but everyone's got stories." He petted Wat's hair, gingerly, as if he were a flea-ridden dog.

Wat didn't have fleas, probably, but he was willing to let it go. "You really going to write me into William's?"

"Well, the necessity of the plot demands it: you were important. You and Roland, the faithful squires who stick by the hero to the very end." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chaucer tilt his head up thoughtfully. "I suppose I could replace you with someone a bit more...aesthetically pleasing."

"Aesthetically your auntie," Wat said decisively, because it seemed like the best response to Chaucer bringing out the big words. "A real mate would at least give me a girl, like Will and Roland."

"I'll take it under consideration." Chaucer's voice was getting lower, softer, so it was like he was speaking right into Wat's ear--though if he had been, probably, he would have been even quieter, and his breath would make Wat's ear hot. His ears were cold now, he noticed. "And what would be the name of this not-overly-choosy damsel?"

"Miranda," said Wat, after thinking carefully.

"All right then. Miranda. With skin like sandstone and hair the color of swamp water. And blind, of course." His white grin shone wickedly.

"*Very* funny. You know, tomorrow morning--"

"You'll likely have a headache which will be the stuff of great legend."

"I'll fong you. I will." He lifted his hand in the air and waved it about for a bit, hoping to drive his point home.

Chaucer grabbed it seconds before it could collide with his eye, squeezed it, and set it down at their sides, leaving his long fingers wrapped around it. "I thought we were friends now," he said lightly. "No more fonging." He sounded almost disappointed by the idea, under the lightness, and that made no sense, which was Chaucer all over.

Considering this, Wat listened for a minute to the strains of "Rebel Rebel" which drifted over from the rest of the party, which seemed very far away. "Don't push your luck," he said at last. "Just because I like you now..." He wasn't that angry about the insults, though, since he had figured out that Chaucer was just like that, and didn't mean anything by it. It was habit, like Wat's threatening and Will's winning and Roland's endless sewing.

"I'll consider myself warned." He sounded warmer now, and Wat twisted his hand around so that he could lace their fingers together, squeeze back.

"Anyway, you don't have a girl."

"Hm?" Chaucer's fingers, which had been lightly tracing back and forth over Wat's, stopped abruptly.

"You don't have anyone, like, to end up with. Me'n'you'n'Kate. So it's not so bad if I don't have anyone, s'long as I'm not the only one." He stilled his own hand, unsure of how to make Chaucer's start moving again.

Chaucer coughed, profoundly. "Well, you have your food--"

"Oi!"

"--I've got my poetry, and Kate of course has her mighty forge. Possibly I should switch some of those attributes when I write things down," he mused.

Wat nodded emphatically until it made him dizzy. "An' give me a sword. Oh, and some nicer clothes." He pushed Chaucer's hand to the cold floor and started stroking his nails over the back.

Above him, Chaucer took a deep breath. "Yes, naturally, Master Fowlhurst, garmented in the whitest silk, with his sword, the deadly and fearsome Apple Tart, sheathed glimmering at his side--as he woos the fair Miranda--"

"Isn't this adorable," Kate said, suddenly appearing from one side, looking like a giantess, with eyes twinkling and pink cheeks.

It was hard to tell who jerked their hand back first, though since Chaucer was sober at least he didn't knock himself in the face with his elbow. "Shouldn't you be off dancing or something?" he whined, and rolled onto his side, pushing his face into Chaucer's thigh. She was just too tall to look at.

"I was," she said. "Not all of us *tire* as easily as you."

"It's the wine," Roland put in. Wat could see his boots through his narrowed eyes.

"Yes, he's been like this for quite some time, I'm sorry to say," Chaucer said, and the others laughed and sat down with them. It was nice, hearing them joke and tease, and Kate had brought him some cake, but at the same time, part of him felt angry, and wished they would leave.

*

So they weren't fighting anymore, but things weren't right, after that night. Chaucer still teased him--endlessly, relentlessly--but Wat laughed it off, and didn't tackle him, and Chaucer didn't throw an arm over his shoulders as he did with Will, or lift him and spin him in a hug as he did one day with Kate. They didn't touch at all, and Wat found that it was awful, found himself imagining Chaucer sprawled out on the ground, struggling under his hands again.

But there was nothing, nothing that could justify him getting mad enough to do it, until they arrived at Jocelyn's castle a few days later. It was nice, yeah, sleeping in a real bed, and a nice one, and eating and eating until Christiana forbade him from bothering the cook again until after the wedding, but the problem was Chaucer who had, somehow, found himself a girl. She had long, dark hair, and when Wat found them sitting together under a tree near the castle, it took him several goggling moments to force out the words, "What the hell is this?"

"She likes poetry," Chaucer said blandly, and they continued admiring the landscape together. He would point something out to her, distant horizon or an oddly shaped cloud, and lean in close, to point the way.

There was a time during which Wat would have taken the baffling, miserable fury inside him and smashed Chaucer over the head with it, but they were friends now, and he laughed when Chaucer teased him and hadn't punched him in days, no matter how much he was asking for it.

"It's indecent," he told Will, who has being fitted for clothes that better suited his station. He was pinned down by several yards of silk along with some actual pins, so he couldn't roll his eyes and wander off, like Roland had. "He's got his hands all over her!"

Will did roll his eyes, and waved his arms as much as he was able. "What difference does it make to you?"

Wat sputtered for several seconds. "It's just not--he shouldn't--he shouldn't be allowed to *do* that in public."

"The last I saw of them they weren't even holding hands."

"Ah, so you've seen them at it, too!"

Frustrated, Will blew some curls out of his face. "There was nothing indecent about it. Since when are you concerned for the chastity of our nation, anyway? I've seen you enough times--"

"That--it's not the same." And though Will laughed, he knew he was right, because Chaucer, ducking his bright head down by the girl's dark one and smiling his sharp smile at her and touching her, touching her with his narrow, pale hands--it was *filthy,* and he didn't know why no one else could see it.

"Wat," Will said, and his voice was a command, "Let it go. It's none of your business."

Muttering to himself, Wat left, and found Chaucer again that evening, talking to himself next to a low stone wall. His head was tipped down so that he could smile up at Wat, though he was taller, and look at him through his eyelashes. Wat balled his hands into fists and stepped up into his space. "What in the name of Jesus Christ and all that's holy is *wrong* with you?"

Chaucer blinked at him, but didn't shrink back at all, because, as Wat knew, he was fonging *insane.* "Is there something the matter? You look...a bit on edge."

"Oh, you think so?" His face felt too hot, and he kept his hands down at his sides with great effort.

"I seem to be receiving that impression, yes," Chaucer said, nodding. He was smiling, too, the bastard, and Wat turned sideways so that he didn't have to look at him.

"Where's your girlfriend gone off to? Found a better poet to hang herself all over?"

"Well, that hardly seems likely." He put his hand on Wat's shoulder, barely touching as if he were afraid. "I honestly have no idea why you're so upset. I haven't been gambling, I haven't tormented you all day, and since you don't even know Eleanor's name--" Wat growled and shook his hand off. "--you can't possibly be jealous."

"I am not. Jealous," Wat said furiously, "you've got no right, to act like that with a girl all of a sudden."

"So it's the surprise that's the problem? I should give a loud speech every time I'm about to start spending time with someone new?" His eyes were wide and blue and innocent, or innocent for Chaucer, which was steeped in sin for any normal person.

Wat poked him hard in the chest. "`Spending time,' is that what you're doing?"

"Yes, actually," said Chaucer, and then *he* rolled his eyes, and that was just the end. Wat shoved at him, pushing his shoulders, and Chaucer braced himself so that when they fell into the grass neither of them landed with their heads on rocks. Their chests were together, their hips, and their legs tangled, and the shock of touching Chaucer again made him stop dead for a moment.

Chaucer took advantage, of course, and rolled him over, pressing him into the grass, gripping his wrists. "I suppose I can only apologize for everything I've ever done. I'm sorry, Wat, for talking to a nice girl, and also for eating breakfast this morning, I imagine--"

"I'll show you sorry, you stupid--" Wat twisted, hard, and flipped them back again, pinning Chaucer's arms. They stared at each other for a long moment, and Wat could feel how warm Chaucer's breath was on his chin, how still and tense the rest of his body was. "I swear," Wat said, finally, confusedly, "it's like you *want* me to fong you, the way you act."

Color swept over Chaucer's cheeks. "Is it?" he murmured, and Wat looked down at him, blue eyes bluer in his pink face, his lips parted slightly, and had a rare moment of understanding.

"Oh," he said, stupidly. "Oh, you *do.*"

Chaucer shut his eyes and spoke rapidly: "It's not so much the violent aspects as, ah, the rest." His face was pained.

Wat started to grin. "You mean when I touch you."

"Yes, fine, that," Chaucer said, and opened his eyes to deliver a glare.

"You want me to touch you!" Wat crowed, certain now.

"You can stop saying it now. Any time, really," Chaucer said desperately, wriggling, but Wat didn't let him up. He balanced himself better on his arms, pushing his hips down a little, and Chaucer gasped.

"So you've been, what...courting? By telling me all the time that I'm like nothing else on earth?"

Starting to smile cautiously now, Chaucer bit his lip. "Well, it really does sound very complementary when you put it like that."

"You're a loony," Wat said. He laced their fingers together and stared at their hands distractedly until Chaucer coughed.

"Yes, I've behaved abominably. Dreadfully," he translated, "awfully."

Wat kissed him, just to see what it was like, and then did it again, because it felt like the kind of thing other people probably wrote poetry about. "What about Eleanor?" he gasped, pulling away as he remembered suddenly.

Chaucer freed his hands and cupped them around Wat's face, looking shy and lustful, happy and worried. "What of her?" He slid his long fingers, not gingerly at all, deep into Wat's hair.

"Well," Wat said, feeling a little nervous himself. "If it's poetry you want--I'm not really all that good with...words," he finished lamely.

"Poetry I have," Chaucer said, and smiled. "What I really need is some good, old-fashioned brute force."

Wat tilted his head, not enough to dislodge Chaucer's hands, and frowned. "Did you just call me a brute?"

"Yes, actually," Chaucer said, and Wat kissed his clever, stupid smile and laughed with him.

 


End file.
